Wear Thy Form
by Saucery
Summary: Castiel has a new vessel. Dean... has a mental breakdown.


**WEAR THY FORM**

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><p>Dean's at Bobby's for Thanksgiving - something he and Sam only manage once in, like, five blue moons - when it happens.<p>

'It' being the appearance of a ridiculously tall, ridiculously _hot_ woman in the kitchen. Although she'd probably be a lot hotter if she wasn't wearing a trenchcoat.

And a. A _tie_.

"Dean," says the woman, in that _monotone_, and -

"Ha," says Dean, "see, that's - that's really good. I mean, you almost got me thinking - but you aren't, obviously, 'cause that's. That's just. Crazy."

The woman _looks_ at him. Her eyes aren't even a little bit blue.

"What, is this 'funniest angel in the garrison' time? Whose practical joke is this? Gabriel's?"

And no, she's still looking at him.

"You're Gabriel, right? I mean, you're obviously not a demon, because, hello, _Bobby's_, and freaking anti-demon alarm systems and sigils out the_wazoo_, and - "

"Dean," says the woman, again, although with the way she says it, it probably translates to, 'you're rambling'. And Dean should _definitely_ not know what that translates to. Because this person is a complete stranger. A _stacked_ stranger. In a trenchcoat. Not even in a hot-damn-is-she-naked-under-that-trenchcoat trenchcoat, which would signal that this is a dream and that Dean can just relax and enjoy himself and wake up in the morning with an uncomfortable hard-on, but _the_ trenchcoat, the _trenchcoat-_trenchoat, the one that always smells like ozone and lightning and burgers.

"Right," says Dean, weakly, which is, of course, exactly when Sam chooses to enter the scene.

"Hey, man, have you seen Bo - _oh my God_."

Fifteen minutes and two saltings and three dousings later (the woman had _glowed_ under the holy water, with a full-body halo, which, yeah, pretty much gave it away), Sam's getting on Dean's case for not doing all the appropriate security checks. He actually uses that word. 'Appropriate'. Dean's starting to get a headache.

"Look, I _knew_ it was an angel." Dean's not mentioning who they both know the angel _is_, though. His brain might just _explode_ if he does that.

"Yeah, but you can't just assume - "

"I knew," says Dean.

Sam stares at him, and mutters something like, "more profound bond, huh," which Dean definitely does _not_ hear.

He does, however, toss the angel a dish-towel. It's the really ratty one that Bobby has hanging on the hook by the stove - the one with the stains on it that _could_ be from ritualistic pig's blood or just very, very rare steak - but the woman dries her face on it with no complaint.

"Thank you," she says, all polite-like. Her mouth still glistens with holy water. Dean looks away from it. At her shoes. They're still perfectly polished, damn them.

"So, who's the meat-suit, this time?" Dean asks, but shuts up very quickly when she _looks_ at him again, this time in the way that communicates general disapproval of Dean's lack of compassion towards his fellow human beings. "Sorry," he says, and feels like an idiot when Sam stares at him again.

"I have been 'grounded'," the angel air-quotes, and that's - that's downright uncanny, how familiar that is, and how _wrong_ it is with those slender, soft hands instead of - instead of the other ones. "My persistent insubordination has led to the temporary confiscation of my preferred vessel, and I have been placed in another mortal body, in which I will stay until such time as God feels that I have learned my lesson. I do not, of course, have any of my powers. I must be humbled."

Dean's kind of freaked out by the idea that God confiscates vessels like most pissed-off parents confiscate mobile phones and, and _cars_. "So… you're mortal, now?"

"For the time being."

Sam blinks. "And how long would that be?"

"Until such time as - "

" - as God decides, yeah, but - this is _dangerous_, isn't it? What if someone comes after you while you're all - " Sam waves his hand " - helpless?"

"I am _not _helpless. I am now familiar with the use of firearms, and I - I thought I could join you in your demon-hunting."

"No," says Dean, mostly because the Impala is a chick-free zone unless he's _boning_ said chick, which - "Just. _No_."

Those big, brown eyes turn to Dean, solemn and slightly _hurt_, and - how do they _feel_ blue even when they're not?

"C'mon, Dean," says Sam, and sounds _exactly_ the way he sounded when he was eight years old and was trying to talk their Dad into keeping that little stray dog he'd taken a liking to.

"_No_. That - who does that body even _belong_ to? Is her brain going to turn to mush, or something? And what happened to Ca - to _Jimmy's_ body?"

"Mr. Novak's body is in reserve," replies the angel, because Dean - Dean _can't_ call her by that name, he just _can't_ - but, hell, it is what it is, right? Que sera sera, and all that?

"_Reserve_? What the hell does that even mean? Is there, like, some kind of _garage_ or something where Heaven keeps its spares?"

The angel - _Castiel_, fine, he's finally admitting it - tilts her head. "Dean," she says, and her voice is genuinely _wondering_. "How did you know?"

Dean's jaw drops.

"Okay, okay," says Sam, probably sensing that Dean's brain is in the process of frying itself. "Dean just wants to know that no one's being hurt. Right?"

"Right," Dean croaks, after a while.

"This vessel has not been acquired by force." Castiel manages to sound both placating _and_ annoyed, in a how-could-you-even-imagine-I-would-steal-a-body way. "Myrna Solanov is a Russian nun. She surrendered herself to God and _asked_ to be used as a vessel. She will, of course, be returned to her body once I am no longer occupying it."

"A. A nun." Dean's mental cohesion _crumbles_, just like that - not just because exactly three out of ten of his adolescent sexual fantasies had featured nuns, but because - because a large number of his _adult_ sexual fantasies feature nuns, too.

Sam looks floored, as well, which - okay, is comforting. Except that it's also annoying. "Uh," says Sam. "Right. That's - that's a really pretty nun, though," he says, and _stutters_ when Dean glares at him. "Not that I - I don't mean - "

"Sister Solanov was blessed in both form and manner," Castiel agrees. "But most of all, she was blessed in her devotion."

"Um." Dean tries, desperately, not to imagine Ca - _this vessel_ in a nun's outfit. "Right, that's - that's great, devotion is great, and that - you can stay at Bobby's, can't you? Until this whole thing, uh, blows over - "

"It will not 'blow over'." Air-quotes, again. "I was told that occupying this form would be necessary to my spiritual growth and discipline, and would, eventually, lead to an epiphany about the nature of love and loyalty. I am told that without such an intervention, I will likely head down a dangerous path of duplicity, betrayal and self-deceit."

Whoa. "How is a woman's body - a - a _nun's_ body - gonna help with all that?"

"Probably because existing on Earth as a woman is a uniquely trying experience," Sam says, and Dean _stares_ at him. "What? Just because _you_ see every woman you meet as a sex object doesn't mean _some_ of us don't have actual conversations with them."

"Yeah, if by 'actual conversations' you mean wild monkey sex with crazy feminists - "

"Sera was a _humanist_," Sam says - _sniffs_, actually, like a superior little _bastard_. "Our pillow talk was enlightening."

"I would like to meet this Sera," Castiel puts in, and Dean has this blinding, momentary vision of lesbian orgies that he quickly - _desperately_ - shoves out of his mind. Out of an airlock, even.

"I'm not sure that would be a good idea," says Sam, looking both flushed _and_ panicked, and, okay, so apparently Winchesters have identical kinks, and Dean does _not_ need to know that.

"Why not?"

"Just - um, no. How come you're not in a nun's habit? If that's - that's the vessel's job?"

"Shut up, Sam," says Dean, because, seriously? He does _not_ need to know that, either.

"A habit is impractical for a more rigorous lifestyle," says Castiel. "I retained Mr. Novak's clothing."

"Ha bloody ha, that's brilliant. Okay, then. Sam and I are gonna go off to Werewolfville tomorrow, and you - you're gonna stay here. With Bobby."

Castiel straightens her shoulders. _Her_ shoulders, and Dean isn't thinking about - "No," she says.

"_What_ did you say?"

"I will not resign my duties even if my form has changed," says Castiel. "I am meant to battle the forces of Hell, and I must continue to do so, whether I am mortal or immortal."

"You could _die_," Dean says.

Sam rolls his eyes. "Yeah? And you don't think Big Daddy can bring him back? _Her_ back. Er. That's - God's done that before, hasn't he? Obviously, he wants Cas to understand... mortality, and - and other stuff - "

Like what it means to live with a pair of massive tits? Not that Dean's been _looking_, or anything. "This isn't a good idea," he says, as a last, token protest - because if Sam's determined to bring Cas along, and _Cas_ is determined to come along, then Cas actually coming along is kind of inevitable. Especially since - let's be honest, here - Bobby will probably _freak_ at having an ex-mortal, ex-male angel staying at his place.

"I will prove to you that it is a good idea," says the - the _woman_, God, Dean isn't going to begin coping with that _anytime_ soon.

"You do that," says Dean, and steps away from the hand Castiel had raised to - possibly - touch his shoulder. And damn it, Cas looks _hurt_ again, but Dean had enough problems maintaining personal space when Castiel's vessel was a _man_, let alone - "I'm just gonna - I'm gonna grab a beer. You two," and he gestures vaguely at Sammy and Cas, "talk. About. Girl things."

"I'm not a girl," Sam calls after him, as Dean beats his retreat.

"You so totally _are_, Mr. Sleeps With Feminists," Dean retorts, and ignores the feeling of two very earnest - very _un_blue - eyes boring into his back.

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><p><strong><strong>fin?<strong>  
><strong>Uh. I might write the odd follow-up ficlet, I guess?  
>Or maybe a series of ficlets?<br>Please review!


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